John groaned, limping down the street, clinging onto Sherlock's arm. His right foot was throbbing and aching, not to mention covered in blood. Or rather his sock was. He'd lost his shoe. Sherlock's arms and face was mangled with flesh wounds also; in fact they looked quite the pair, the two of them hobbling down a lamp lit street, clinging onto each other for dear life, as blood tricked down various parts of their body. Sherlock grunted as they came to a slow halt.
"What are we doing?" John asked.
"Waiting for the bus," Sherlock said, "We're not walking home like this."
John sighed, coming to terms with the fact that this was the only good idea Sherlock had come out with in a long time.
"Do we really need to catch a bus?" John began to question, realising the amount of attention they'd get, if they fell into a bus looking like they'd wandered out of a war zone.
The Consulting Detective nodded, and soon a set of bright lights came slowly round the corner, and began to approach the stop. It was a double decker, and looked almost empty. Sherlock went on first, paying for the tickets for both him and John, (and ignoring the worried expression from the bus driver) before holding out his hand for the good doctor to use as a hold. John grasped the man's surprisingly smooth and tranquil hand, before following him to the back of the bus. The pain in his foot had numbed now, but John couldn't help but wince as he took a seat next to his flatmate.
Sherlock took the seat closest to the window, and began to stare at the tops of the houses, and the mist that had just begun to settle, like a dim orange cloud of smoke.
"Can you manage?" Sherlock asked as he heard John's voiced displeasure whilst sitting, without looking away from the window.
"Fine, thanks." John lied.
Soon, however, they where still and the bus jolted forward.
"Let's never do that again," John pleaded, after a few minutes of silence.
Sherlock's lips tilted upward slightly.
The odd thing is, that after five minutes (at least) of complete silence, Sherlock felt something heavy on his shoulder. His fist instinct was to grab his gun, and the raven haired man's hand went straight to his trouser pocket – but relaxed when he saw the tuft of dirty blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. He breathed out, leaning back as John's head settled comfortably on Sherlock's broad shoulders. A short friend indeed, he thought, as John stretched and in twined himself more in his flatmates body. Hesitantly, Sherlock carefully opened his thick blue coat and put it around John too, who unconsciously snuggled into Sherlock in his sleep. He smiled at this.
This was okay.
